


September Morn

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established lovers. Country life. Transitions., Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16436792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is not only fluff, it's plotless, sexless fluff. A character study. An indulgence. A happy moment shared. Nothing more. But it suited me today.Hope you enjoy it. Hugs to you all, my lovies.





	September Morn

It was cold when Mycroft woke up. The room was dim, the heavy, lined curtains pulled close—as insulation as much as for darkness. Here in Glenn Lochaill, autumn was settling in, even in early September, and nights were chill. On the other hand, the only light to disturb sleep was the blaze of the Milky Way and the bright gleam of moonshine on the lake.

It was early…so early. He could hear the dawn chorus of the birds, still in full cry. He could feel the damp and chill in the air. It was quiet, otherwise—quiet in a way that full daylight never is. He pushed aside a curtain and looked out the antique casement windows, shivering pleasantly at the dew-covered grasses and the maple-leaves heavy with even more dew—dripping silver drops from every star-sharp point. By the light he thought it must be about six-thirty—just crossing the border between night and dawn. He let the curtain fall shut again.

The bed was empty, though Greg had left a jumbled nest to remind Mycroft of where he’d lain. Mycroft, observing, smiled quietly, and permitted himself a moment to trace the dented pillow, and the long heap of duvet where his lover had rolled aside the bedding on getting up.

He was not afraid. He knew Greg had not left him. He trusted—and appreciated the precious rareness of that trust in his wary, paranoid life.

He stripped off his pajamas and pulled on a pair of sturdy wool tweed trousers, clipping on a pair of braces which he set neatly over his bare shoulders. Then he snatched the duvet off the bed, draping it like a stole over his shoulders, and ventured out to greet the day, indifferent to the fact that his hair, such as he still possessed, was a spiky mess, or that he’d failed to put on pants before trousers, and the wool ticked his balls.

He found a hot thermos pitcher of tea made up in the tiny galley kitchen, and poured himself a mug. Then he left the cabin, minced down the path to the lake, dodging pebbles and the spined, thorny petals of pine cones left after squirrels had gutted the pine nuts. Halfway down the path the land dropped away, and he could see clear down to the shoreline.

It was still early. The wild moor ran down to the lakeside. The lake shone like an opal, picking up blue and pink and purple from the near-white sky, and veiling the colors in a blanket of mist rising off the water. The loch was edged with granite boulders, with only a small area cleared over generations, as one owner or another dragged a boulder this way, or raked out a load of heavy, water-worn stones.

There, at the water’s edge, was Mycroft’s lover, buck naked and up to his shins in the lake. He hesitated, not willing to plunge in, but not willing to give up on the dream of a morning swim, either. His arms wrapped his body, hands hovering over his genitals as if to guard them from the sudden, cock-withering cold, sure to set his bollocks snapping up as tight as they could go to escape the shock. His hair seemed faintly pink, picking up the same sunrise sheen the loch displayed.

Mycroft felt his heart soar and sing, a lark ascending.

It was for this, he thought, that he’d set Anthea on the trail of private properties somewhere between Galway and the Highlands on the west coast of Scotland. It was for the sight of his love, naked and splendid, debating the wisdom of skinny-dipping first thing in the morning in a spring-fed loch halfway into September. Where in London could he have ever enjoyed such as sight, or hoped to see it over and over again, other mornings over the years? It was for this he’d rearranged his savings, restructured his retirement plans, and begun the long process of taking his life back from the clutches of bureaucracy.

He held the cup between his palms, sipping and smiling. His long, thin toes dug absently into the gritty, sandy soil.

A moment or two later the picture shattered. Greg turned, and flashed a blazing bright smile up the hill to Mycroft, and waved—as beautiful that way as more modestly posed, his chest, bedecked with salt and pepper hair, providing a wide and alluring view.

“Oi, Mike!  Going to join me?”

“And freeze my bum? Good heavens, no. But feel free, feel free. I shan’t stop you.”

“Bastard.” Lestrade laughed softly. “What’s the good of a private lake if you can’t skinny dip in it, eh?”

“Later,” Mycroft said. “When the fog’s burned off and the world has warmed up a tad.”

He would, he thought. He’d strip as naked as Lestrade and wade in, feeling the water, like cold silk, flow over his body. He’d allow himself the luxury of pure sensation. He’d revel in it.

In the meantime, there was tea, and the sight of his beloved nerving himself for the plunge. Greg shivered one brief, melodramatic shudder, gathered himself, and raced forward, arching into the lake and surfacing like a dolphin, with a mighty roar at the shock of the cold.

Mycroft laughed.

He laughed more often, these days, since he and Greg had come together. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to let go and just…be. To feel, to see, to move without surrounding everything with layer after layer of calculation, self-censorship, and control.

The scent of the tea was heady. The sight of Greg swimming in less than Olympian grace was headier. Around them rooks awoke to gossip.

Back in the cabin—a cabin Mycroft now owned outright—there was a wood fire rising, phoenix-like from the embers of the night before, stirred to life by Greg upon getting up. There was that pitcher of tea. There were rashers of streaky bacon, and eggs, and toast for making soldiers. There were books to read, and music to listen to, and a drawing pad and colored pencils to experiment with.

Best of all, in the bottom of Mycroft’s elegant leather weekend bag was a ring and a proposed marriage contract. Greg would no doubt tease him for the second, pointing out the clumsy formality. But…Mycroft thought in his heart of hearts Greg would appreciate knowing his lover was planning for him, sorting out ways to secure Greg’s future no matter what befell them.

He dared to hope Greg would say yes.

Greg thrashed his way back in, no doubt terrifying the local trout. He stood, dripping, the water pouring silver and glorious over his body. He waved again.

Mycroft waved back.

I love September, he thought, and then let  even that thought go in the silent, mindful enjoyment of the morning.


End file.
